


Beavers Behaving Badly

by Ninjaninaiii



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Background Relationships, CPR, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Javert/Jean Valjean, Gen, In Canada, Lumberjack AU, M/M, Middle Aged Virgins, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy/éponine Thénardier, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Multi, discussions about race, where everyone is gay and everyone is living together, who doesn't like some cpr shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:50:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You should probably get the beaver relocated,” Combeferre said, edging himself into the conversation. Valjean had only ever talked to the man about their moth problem before, so he wasn’t too surprised that Combeferre might be knowledgeable about beavers too. “He’ll dam the river and flood the area.” </p><p>(Or, the fic that started as a crack fic about beavers and gay lumberjacks but somehow turned serious.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beavers Behaving Badly

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about Canada, rivers or winter. Sorry.

Valjean roamed across his land, carrying a huge log upon one of his shoulders, axe on the other. Halfway home, he stopped for a lunch break, not being all he used to be. He dropped the log and axe beside a tree stump he’d cleared a couple of months ago, pulling a roll from his jacket pocket. He could have made it home and had lunch there, but the land was beautiful, the air was chill and fresh, and this way he could eat as slowly as he wanted. When he was eating with Cosette, she tended to hurry him, in an attempt to get him to eat seconds or thirds.

They’d only moved to the land recently, so he still relished watching the mountains glisten in the near distance, the ice-capped horizon, the smell of pine and freshly cut wood. He glanced at the sun, still high in the sky, and decided he could afford to go for a walk, without the ever-present weight of wood and steel. He swung his axe into the stump, rolled his shoulders, picked a direction and walked.

Before long, he passed through thinly-treed flatlands to a more densely populated woodland, the crunch of spring frost underfoot. It was definitely getting warmer, but Valjean was glad he’d started preparing firewood as early as possible. Cosette had let a couple of her friends stay over the winter too, so unlike Valjean’s plans to allow the house to cool (warming only Cosette’s rooms,) he had decided he would warm the whole house, not wanting her new friends to think her stingy.

Soon enough he heard the trickle of water and turned towards it, knowing that there was a stream somewhere on the land, but not having had the time nor inclination to find it before. He wondered if it had fish in it, and whether, come summer, he could learn to fish. The general store had had bait in its fridges, and he’d seen one of the old men on the store’s porch making brightly coloured flies. He got quite excited at the thought of fishing, bringing home dinner and preparing a simple but delicious meal for Cosette, and maybe her friends.

He reached the bank and was, frankly, taken aback. He’d not been able to see from the house, separated as it was from the rest of the land by the forest, but the ‘stream’ was in fact a huge, rapid river, about maybe ten meters wide, and potentially deeper than it looked. It was beautiful, though, and the longer Valjean watched, the longer he was convinced it was filled with fish.

He nodded to himself, deciding he would check every so often to see if the river had calmed from the spring swell. In a couple of months, the water from the melted ice up the mountains wouldn’t be so voluminous, and he’d actually stand a chance of standing in the river without being swept downstream.

-

Come May, the river had calmed enough that Valjean could stand in the water in borrowed waders. He’d made himself a simple rod out of a whittled sapling and some fishing wire he’d found in one of his lodge’s cupboards, still filled with the previous owner’s knickknacks. He wasn’t expecting to catch anything, but he enjoyed the feel of standing in the calf-height water, a still slightly cool wind blowing down the river countering the midsummer sun beating down.

The water was barely a trickle now, and every so often he could see the shimmer of scales opposite him flicker in between rocks and foliage. It was a pleasant Sunday activity, though he didn’t get to do it very often. He spent a lot of time in the woods, felling and hauling, doing enough work to make a living selling the logs as firewood to the locals. He had more time now that it was summer, but a couple of the big places liked to stock up no matter what time of the year, and you never knew when a cold wind could blow down from the mountains.

The added supply of fish might have been nice. Though he topped up his groceries from his own small vegetable garden, it being new, he’d only managed to start growing a variety of root veg, needing to go to the grocer for anything green. He made enough for himself and Cosette through the logging, enough, at least, that she didn’t ask questions as to their finances. She did not know quite how wealthy they were, as yet, and probably wouldn’t until his death.

Cosette had started to enjoy baking, which had made their simple meals a lot better, and it had made the house seem much more homely, the smell of freshly-baked bread and buttered carrots filling the air.

They ate little meat but what the neighbours brought them from hunt leftovers, sometimes given strips of jerky by the general-store owner, who appreciated the new faces, Valjean having plenty of time to stop and talk with the man. Fauchelevent also had a vegetable garden, and was more than willing to donate seeds and cuttings to his new customers.

The town was a rather sleepy one, a couple hundred residents at most, mostly old or middle-aged, with a dozen or so hipster youths, who’d moved en massse to get away from the city. These youths were who Cosette had begun to befriend, and though Valjean had been worried at first, the rabble were not destructive, and seemed relatively pleasant.

A couple of them liked to help him fell, Feuilly and Bahorel most often, though Valjean had a suspicion the two older boys liked to have an excuse to get away from their teasing friends. The only two not still in their twenties, they would excuse themselves from Valjean and head a different direction after a couple of hours, returning to Madeleine Cabin looking dishevelled and slightly sweaty. “Felling trees takes a lot of effort,” they would complain, and most of the time Valjean would help them out.

“They were with me the whole time,” he’d say, and everyone would believe him. Feuilly and Bahorel liked to leave him presents of carved animals for his troubles, and by the time the next May had rolled around, his dresser was a menagerie.

His favourite wooden animal was his beaver, a tiny thing that fit into the palm of his hand, tail no bigger than his pinky nail. It had obviously been made quickly, in a lunchbreak maybe, its expression lopsided and dopey, the detail of its tail an uneven criss-cross.

Feuilly had made it after the three of them had passed by the river last autumn and spotted a beaver, the first time any of them had seen one in the wild. They had paused for a while, watching it duck down to the bottom of the water, reappearing further up or downstream with armfuls of mud or a mouthful of branches. After that, Bahorel had taken to calling the three of them ‘beaver squad”, having often come back muddy and covered in twigs.

Grantaire always grinned and whistled when Feuilly picked leaves out of Bahorel’s dreads, and there was always a strange moment of silence when Valjean stripped off his muddied shirts. He’d been self-conscious the first few months, thinking they’d been disgusted by his scars, but after one eventful evening of truth or dare, he’d learnt a lot about the tastes of the boys who frequented their house. It made him a lot calmer about having them all round so often. Not that he thought any of them were interested in Cosette in more than a platonic way; they all seemed to have paired themselves up into queerer and queerer ways.

As well as making Valjean wooden animals, Feuilly used his talents to make flies when he found out Valjean had an interest in them, Bahorel bringing his fishing gear when he knew they hadn’t got any logging planned.

They made a nice couple to go on outings with. Valjean loved the other children, but they were always arguing, jokingly or not, still working out their relationship dramas. Feuilly and Bahorel had, as far as he could tell, been together since birth, and any disagreements tended to be solved with hugs and big, deep laughs, rather than high, insulting words and squared jaws. Valjean had once taken Grantaire and Enjolras on one of these trips, and had ended almost beheading them both. Or leaving them stranded in the woods. He had a feeling even if he left them stranded in the woods, they’d end up murdering one another, unlike Feuilly and Bahorel.

Valjean had learnt the hard way not to follow the strange sounds in the woods. He was glad he had a light step. He didn’t think they needed to know what he knew.

Today the two stood either side of Valjean, teaching him the best way to cast, how to bait his rod, how to reel in the fish. Between the three of them, Beaver Squad managed to catch a dozen or so decent-sized trout, plenty for feeding the family with a couple to smoke for winter.

Around mid-day, they’d seen their beaver friend, who they’d named Jean, for his “rippling muscles and excellent lumberjack skills.” Bahorel had been very adamant in making sure Valjean knew Jean Beaver was named after him.

By this point, more than a year after first discovering the river, the kids had all moved into Madeleine cottage, and dinner was always a big affair, with plenty of side dishes, plenty of option, and plenty of noise.

At the head of the table, Bahorel and Feuilly were telling Cosette and Enjolras about Jean Beaver, and how he had had a wildflower stuck to his breast the entire day’s work, hence the flower now tucked pride of place in Valjean’s shirt pocket.

“You should probably get the beaver relocated,” Combeferre said, edging himself into the conversation. Valjean had only ever talked to the man about their moth problem before, so he wasn’t too surprised that Combeferre might be knowledgeable about beavers too. “He’ll dam the river and flood the area.”

“Do beavers actually do that?” Marius had been listening in, and he looked like a child with an animal anatomy book. “Make dams?”

Bahorel slapped him on the back with a big grin. “Yeah, Marius, beavers make dams.”

“If you took a juvenile beaver and grew it at home, would it still build dams?” Valjean heard Enjolras ask Feuilly, quietly.

Feuilly nodded and whispered “It’s instinctual” back.

“Why do we have to get rid of Jean Beaver?” Bahorel asked, looking like he had just been told that his puppy had died. Or his beaver had died. Valjean had the feeling Bahorel had been planning on adopting that beaver.

“If er,” Combeferre looked up from his dinner, glanced up at Valjean, looked back down and smiled at his food. “ _Jean Beaver_ blocks off the river and creates a pond, and establishes a family, he’ll barricade the migrating fish and inundate the flatlands. It’ll kill the young trees and rot the bigger ones.”

“And Papa’s house will flood,” Cosette added. “We’re too close to the river, and in spring the water comes down so fast from the mountains.” Cosette had joined a local mountaineering team as soon as they’d arrived, and she’d been scouting the safety of the rivers and snow drifts.

“Just have to call a trapper.” Combeferre took out his phone, googling the service.

“Trapper?” Came a chorus of outraged cries. “We can’t kill Jean Beaver!”

Enjolras had stood, adopting a livid stance. “I’m ashamed, Combeferre!”

Combeferre let the rabble calm down (Bahorel had to help them along a little with a round of shushing,) before he explained. “The trapper will take Jean Beaver to the national park and let him build a dam outside of human harm.”

Enjolras looked about the room, hummed and sat down. “We shouldn’t move Jean just because it will affect us,” he said, but then frowned. “But we cannot inconvenience M. Valjean.”

The kids turned to the head of the table, where Valjean was finishing his trout. Feuilly, Jehan and Musichetta had cooked a feast, making trout about seven different ways, but Feuilly’s simple lemon and herb trout, baked in butter wrapped in foil had been his favourite, and he had been attempting to have as much of it as was polite before the kids stopped talking and started eating again.

He looked up to find the kids all looking at him. Valjean’s mind supplied him with the background conversation he’d been half-listening to. “We should do as Combeferre says.”

Combeferre brightened a bit at Valjean’s trust, which made Valjean’s heart flutter. He’d been distant to the kids when they’d first joined himself and Cosette, but finding them all nice people, he’d started to like conversing with them all. And to have people appreciate his input, his trust… it made Valjean happy.

“There’s one local who’s licenced outside of trapping season. SBS.”

“SBS?” Grantaire asked. “What’s it stand for?”

Combeferre tapped his phone and raised an eyebrow. “Star Beaver Services...”

There was a beat of silence. “Sounds fishy, I don’t trust him,” Grantaire declared.

“What’ve stars got to do with beavers?” Bossuet asked.

“Maybe like, you know in cartoons, when they knock someone out, and stars go round and round?” Joly provided, Musichetta grinning at the scandalised expression descending on the table’s faces. Valjean suddenly knew why the kids put the threesome down at the other end of the table, away from the usually more serious conversations.

“This Javert guy might just like stars,” Feuilly consoled.

“So we’re agreed we call SBS?”

Valjean put one hand up. “Aye?” he asked, then looked around. Combeferre cottoned on first, raising his own hand. Feuilly and Bahorel were next, then slowly the rest of the Amis agreed. Enjolras and Grantaire fit in a quick argument about animal rights and flooding, but with all for, they put the phone on the table, clicked on speakerphone and pressed the green call button.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Javert?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire shook his head, making a throat-slitting motion. “Don’t trust him,” he mouthed, “Sounds fishy!”

“We have a er, beaver problem?”

“Jean Beaver is not a problem!” Bahorel boomed. Feuilly managed to get his hand on Bahorel’s mouth, shutting him up.

The man on the other end of the phone cleared his throat, sounding like he might hang up, so Valjean took the phone (on Combeferre’s allowing nod,) turned off the speaker phone and went out to the porch.

“Hello, sorry, are you still there?”

“Was I on speaker?” the man asked, sounding gruff and tired.

“Yes. Sorry. Strange family.”

“If this is a prank…”

“No, no, no prank I assure you, Monsieur…?”

“Javert.”

“Javert. Hi.”

“Who are you?”

“Right, yes, sorry, I’m Jean-“

“The beaver?”

“No, no, the kids er, named the beaver after me, something about muscles and er… wood…” Valjean squinted, wondering whether the innuendo was intended. “When are you free to work, Monsieur Javert?”

“I can come tomorrow.”

“Perfect, yes, I’m free, that’d be wonderful. I’m uh, up at Madeleine Cabin, if you know it?”

“I’ll be there at dawn.”

Valjean would have told the man not to bother getting there so early, but before he had the chance to say the words, there was a click and the screen went black.

He’d be awake at that time anyway, always having woken then, but Javert seemed like he could use a good night’s rest. A lie in, perhaps. He could hear Cosette telling him the same, but Valjean liked his job, liked his pace.

Well, he countered, maybe Javert liked the pace of his life, liked getting up before dawn to travel into the Canadian wilderness in search of a lumberjack’s beavers. He resolved never to phrase it such a way again.

Perhaps it was the influence of Grantaire and Courfeyrac, but suddenly the simplest phrasings did not seem so innocent. Bahorel would like that, “the lumberjack’s beavers.” He smiled to himself, breathed a deep breath of still, summer night air, then returned to the riot of a dining room, where the kids were scoffing down, manners to the wind without Valjean to watch them.

“He’s coming tomorrow,” he announced, and there was a mix of cheers and boos. “Let’s all be nice to Monsieur Javert, okay?” he asked, hoping they’d let the man off lightly. Most visitors tended to be torn apart by the political scavengers these young people were.

Valjean wondered how this beaver-catcher would fare against the group of revolutionaries.

-

Javert had come and gone before even the earliest riser in the Amis had woken up.

Valjean had not slept well, and so was enjoying watching the sunrise with a mug of tea when he saw Javert’s truck pull up, a tanned man about his age stepping out and pulling on a leather coat. Valjean raised an eyebrow at the gesture. It was before sunrise and was definitely not warm, but the coat would suit winter much more than summer, and they had a bit of a trek before the river. He wondered if he should warn Javert that he would sweat.

He took a last sip of his tea, put the mug on the deck where one of the Amis wouldn’t trip on it, and went to greet the man, who looked surprised to see anyone awake. “Monsieur Javert?”

“Just Javert is fine,” Javert said, sticking his hands in his coat pockets. “Monsieur Madeleine?”

“Just Jean is fine,” Valjean countered, “Valjean. Madeleine was my predecessor. Named the house.”

Javert gave a curt nod of understanding, and by way of mutual avoidance of small talk, they shook hands.

“Would you like a tea? Coffee?”

“No.” There was a pause, a slight frown, and then a “thank you.” Valjean would have smiled if he thought the other man wouldn’t have thought he was laughing at him. “The beaver?”

“Right, yes, er, right this way.” Valjean led the man through the scrub, the forest, and then to the river, Javert stopping every now and again to assess something or the other. A few metres from the house, he came to a full stop beside a tree, dropping to a crouch to inspect gnaw marks Valjean hadn’t even noticed before.

The tree was thick, the trunk maybe a metre wide at the base, but something had had a good attempt at it, starting to bite a notch in the bark, getting a good fist-sized wedge in. “The beaver?” Valjean asked, amazed that his namesake would even try to go at a tree that size.

“They have tremendous power in their jaws,” Javert said, touching the scarred wood. His gaze travelled from the bite marks, up, and then to behind them, where the house was still close. Valjean calculated a conclusion the same time Javert did. If Jean the Beaver had succeeded in powering through the tree, the house and everyone in it would have been crushed. Suddenly Javert’s presence didn’t seem quite so unnecessary.

Once they reached the riverbank, Javert found them a rock to perch on downwind in the hopes of staking out the beaver. Being a dam, however, meant the beaver only had a few places to be, and so it was only a little over ten minutes before Jean Jr. appeared.

“Small male,” Javert noted, jotting something down in his pocketbook, eyes never leaving his target.

“Is that good or bad?” Valjean asked, feeling like he should get accustomed to some more detailed knowledge of his new land’s flora and fauna.

“Easy to trap. Inexperienced, curious, small enough to cage without injury. He’ll be young enough to set up well in a new area, too. The older ones like to keep their family’s territory.”

“Ahh,” Valjean said, quite eloquently, scratching his chin in a way he thought might make him look interested.

Javert stood, picking up his bits of equipment and restoring his pocketbook in his coat. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Great. Thank you.” The two stood, watching the beaver go about its dam-building business for a while longer before they looked at one another, half-smiled and trekked their way back.

-

It was a week of daily dawn excursions later before any of the kids remembered (or brought up that they’d remembered) that Javert was supposed to be evicting their favourite beaver.

“Is he hot?” Grantaire asked at breakfast. A face relatively unseen before noon, Valjean had been told that the lot of them had endeavoured to be awake as early as possible to catch a glimpse of the mystery star man. No luck for any of them, Javert had refused all invitation of coming inside, and had driven off not forty five minutes after arriving.

“What’s this?” Éponine asked, dropping into her chair late.

“Father Valjean’s been having hot dates every morning this week,” Courfeyrac said, spitting out crumbs of toast as he talked.

“He might have been hot in that coat of his, I’m sure,” Valjean said, pretending not to understand the slang. He ate a slice of apple with more bite than usual, making sure to have mouthfuls in for longer as the rest of the table attempted to rephrase the question.

“Was he beautiful, papa?” Cosette asked, in her slightly teasing way.

“I do not think Javert would appreciate being called beautiful, no, Cosette.”

“Oooh, no ‘monsieur’ this morning?” Grantaire asked, seeming to rather enjoy the fact that mornings meant pancakes.

“Javert insisted on no honorifics.”

“’Insisted’, he says!” Courfeyrac cheered with Grantaire, exchanging cheeky “there is hope yet,”s and “how fast they grow up.”

“What does he look like?” Jehan asked, leaning closer to Valjean with their arms on the table, hopeless look in their eyes. If Valjean was not careful, his own teasing of the youths would mean epic poetry written about himself and this beaver catcher.

“First Nations, I think, Métis maybe. Hair in a braid down his back… Maybe taller than me, but thinner.”

“Did he speak French?” Enjolras asked, then checked himself. “Or Michif? Or English?”

“French.”

The kids looked between one another, communicating something in a wordless exchange of minute expressions. They directed their attention towards him as if they had a legitimate mental link.

“Make sure he stays for breakfast tomorrow,” Cosette translated, a slight threat making its way into her intonation.

“He didn’t seem like the pancakes type,” Valjean said with a small smile, trying to picture the man he’d only briefly met sitting at the table with the lot of them, drowning his pancakes in syrup.

“We have toast,” Jehan said, as if trying to calm Valjean. “And cereal. And porridge? And fish. And…” They squinted at the kitchen, turned to Musichetta and Feuilly and starting to converse, already sounding like they were planning for a feast.

“I will ask him to stay, but I doubt he will,” was all Valjean could promise, before asking Enjolras about a recent political dilemma, a foolproof way of getting any conversation away from himself.

When he looked up to reach for another apple, Bahorel was watching him with a slight smile, an expression Valjean couldn’t quite read. It was replaced with Bahorel’s huge grin when he was caught in the act, but not without Bahorel sending him a quick wink.

-

Javert arrived at precisely the same time the next morning, Valjean downing the last of his tea as the sun started to peek above the horizon, and they shared a less awkward greeting. With small talk still lacking, Javert went to the back of his truck, picked up his cage and toolbox, and they set off towards the river in an accepting silence, broken only once or twice with a “watch that branch,” or a “don’t slip on that mud.”

Valjean was impressed by Javert’s efficiency, setting the trap and bait in the exact position they’d seen Jean Beaver the previous mornings, and spooning in a small dollop of a brown, foul-smelling paste.

“The trap is hot,” Javert said, almost to himself as he came to side beside Valjean in their hiding spot. “It should not take too long.”

Javert was right, of course, and only an hour later, there was the startlingly loud sound of the metal grate shutting, and violent thrashing. Valjean was glad none of the Amis were there to watch, for at least half of them would run to free the animal as soon as possible if they saw it like it was. Valjean was in half a mind to go and do it himself, half-rising, but Javert barred him with one arm.

“Is he hurt?” Valjean asked, too far away to see if the creature was okay.

“He will be fine,” was Javert’s brusque reply, which riled Valjean.

“Will be? Is he not fine now?”

Javert rose without a word, going to the trap and pulling it up by the thick rope. By the time he had hauled the massive metal frame free, Jean Beaver had calmed down (or exhausted himself.) “No injury,” Javert reported. “If you would be so kind as to pick up my equipment?”

Valjean nodded, doing as he had been commanded and trotting after Javert’s quick pace. How he was quicker than Valjean, who was carrying a weight half as heavy, he didn’t know.

Javert had Jean Beaver tucked safely away in the truck before the sun had fully risen in the sky, and Valjean was at a loss. He looked back towards the house, then at Javert, who had his hands on his hips, as if expecting something.

“Thank you for your hard work, Javert, that really was quick.”

Javert bowed his head, graciously accepting the praise.

“I’ll be honest,” Valjean said, tucking his hands in his back jeans pockets, “None of us expected you to be done so soon, I’m at a loss…”

“A loss, Monsieur?”

“Jean, please.” Javert smiled in a way that meant he’d probably never drop the ‘Monsieur’, which made Valjean regret that he’d dropped it so quickly. “My family were hoping you might stay for breakfast… it’s looking like a feast is being prepared to say farewell to Jean Beaver.”

“A feast, Monsieur?”

“Well, every meal tends to be a feast now…” Valjean smiled in a slightly overwhelmed way, “I have three trainee-chefs cooking for a house of fourteen, three of whom are vegan, most of the others veg or pescatarian.”

Javert nodded, once, slowly, as if he wasn’t sure how to take this information.

“Please, Javert, if you have nowhere else to be, make our table fifteen?”

“I…” Javert looked towards the beaver, then back at the house. “I should go.”

“Javert. Please.” Valjean took a step closer and paused before actually grabbing at Javert’s jacket. He hoped Javert could read the ‘Save me’ in his eyes. “By the time the kids are finished we’ll be eating for thirty. At least take some for your drive home.”

Javert looked at Valjean’s half-outstretched hand, back at his truck, then at Valjean’s face. His gaze dropped to the grassy drive. “If it would not be a bother.”

“Not a bother,” Valjean said too quickly. “You might have to wait for a half hour while I raise them all.”

“I would have thought at least one of your family would have inherited your early rising.”

“They’re all basically just out of their teens.”

“Your wife must be busy.”

Valjean stopped with his hand on the front doorknob and laughed.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” Javert asked, expression scrunching.

“No, no, I just- well, you’ll see.”

Javert and Valjean added their boots to the shoe-rack, or the shoe-wardrobe as it was starting to become.

“Three girls, a genderfluid and more dandies than you can shake a stick at,” Valjean explained.

To do Javert justice, he didn’t seem in any way antagonistic towards the eclectic mix of children.

“Stay here, I’ll just wake one up and start the domino chain.”

Valjean left Javert looking severely out of place in their hallway, stern and chilly against the predominantly colourful furniture, décor and framed photographs. He looked back once to find Javert inspecting one of the latter, a big family portrait they’d taken only a couple of weeks ago. Valjean was seated at the centre on the large tree stump outside their house, surrounded by a sea of kids pulling stupid faces.

Valjean wasn’t fond of photographs of himself, and had attempted to tell them he’d rather take the photo than be in it, but at least seven excuses were said at once, including “you must be in the family portrait, papa”, “no offence but we don’t trust you not to take it shakily”, and “technology means everyone can be in it.”

It had been about the nineteenth attempt at taking the photo, the first few admittedly his own fault for looking like he was “trying not to take a shit,” the rest because they all wanted to try out different poses, or one (or six) had blinked.

Nearly two dozen later, they captured the perfect one, and Valjean had to say, he looked decent in it. Just seconds before the shutter had clicked, Feuilly, who was crouched on one side of Valjean, had leaned over him and whispered in Bahorel’s ear. Bahorel’s quiet blush was enough to put a fond smile on Valjean’s face, and he was glad to have been caught looking proud to be the father of the lot of them.

Knocking on the first door to the right of the first floor, he called for Cosette and was greeted with a groan, a thud, a couple of seconds, then dull footsteps and the door opened. “Morning, Papa,” she said, looking like a walking bird’s nest.

“Good morning,” Valjean replied, kissing the top of her head. “Monsieur Javert is here for breakfast.” That got the girl’s attention, and she craned around him as if the man might be standing behind Valjean. Finding him not there, she went first to Musichetta’s room, the two girls’ on the first floor.

When Valjean had first bought the property, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with all the room, but some of the boys had helped convert the attic into a large, communal bedroom for those who didn’t mind sharing, (Courfeyrac, Marius, Bahorel, Feuilly, Grantaire, Enjolras, Éponine and Jehan), allowing Combeferre, Cosette and Valjean their own with Joly sharing the master bedroom with Musichetta and Bossuet.

Valjean hadn’t needed to be told that Combeferre would occasionally room with Cosette when one (or two, or three,) of the others wanted a bit more privacy, and it was becoming more of a regular occurrence for Éponine to be using Cosette’s bathroom than one of the communal ones. It was a rather incestual family, this one.

When winter came, Valjean was going to propose adding to the building, or to maybe expand the property into something like a village. He had no particular attachments to this house, and he would be more than happy to live in a small, one-bedroom cottage just beyond the main property if he thought the kids would let him. He wasn’t a materialistic man. Before the kids’ presents, his only possessions were his small, bronze crucifix and his silver candlesticks, easy enough to fit on a bedside table.

With the mix of talents in the group, it wouldn’t be too preposterous for them to design and build a small village, and with the law kids, they could never go wrong. If they got permission, he might even ask whether they would mind expanding the plans to include a homeless shelter, and a school, and perhaps, if they all agreed, somewhere to hire some of the unemployed people of the area.

Valjean heard one of Musichetta’s beaus go upstairs, waking the upstairs crowd, so he returned to Javert, who was now slightly further down the hall and looking more inquisitively at a slightly older family photo just off the rest of the ones of the people upstairs.

“My sister and her children,” Valjean said, wincing as Javert jumped and stumbled back. “Sorry, sorry, my bad, the kids are always saying I’m surprising them.”

Javert put a hand to his heart, looking like he’d aged about ten years. “I shouldn’t have been snooping. I apologise.”

“No, no, it’s out of place, right? The only photo on the wall with children.”

“I assumed the children were the ones in the large photo. I was trying to match which child was which adult.”

“You’d have a hard time, my sister and her children are with God.” Valjean stroked the photo, but not wanting to chill the atmosphere, he smiled. “It was a good while ago.”

Javert nodded, apologetically but understanding it was not to be probed, and went back to the big photo instead. “Would I be correct to assume not all of these are your own blood?”

“None of them are related by blood,” Valjean said, his smile regaining its genuineness. “Cosette, the girl behind me, is my daughter by adoption, and the others… Well. I think by this point, they consider themselves adopted too.” Valjean went to the library, ushering Javert in and into a seat.

 “Quite the multicultural family.”

“Multi-faith, multi-lingual, seem to be multiplying…” Valjean chuckled, putting a couple of books back onto shelves, having been abandoned last night by someone. “Sorry it’s a mess, like I said, we were all thinking you’d take longer. They shouldn’t be too long, if the clatter they were causing last night is anything to go by, they’ve prepared most of the food, it just needs heating. At Javert’s raised eyebrow, Valjean’s smile grew. “Like I said, a feast.”

“Hmm.”

“Any children yourself, Javert?” Valjean asked, leaning against the bookshelf opposite Javert, who he’d sat in his armchair.

“No.” There was a silence as Valjean looked at Javert, waiting for anything else. Just when Valjean was going to move on, Javert cleared his throat. “Work. I… Work too much.”

Valjean suspected Javert didn’t tend to get out much, or talk about his personal life, so he decided he’d feel pleased to be allowed this snipped of Javert’s heart. “Beaver trapping business booming these days?”

“Hardly.” Javert pulled back the lapel of his outer coat to reveal a thinner jacket, on which was the wildlife enforcement badge.

“So Star Beaver Service is just a side business?”

Javert looked like all humour had been swiped from his face. His jaw worked for a second before he looked calm enough to answer. “The website?” He asked, his voice a couple of shades angrier.

“Er, yes, I presume so.”

Javert squinted. “Are any of your… ‘children’ good with computers?”

Valjean didn’t think he should reveal a couple of them were, he’d overheard, hackers for some online liberation group, so he decided he’d just nod instead. “One or two are website designers?”

“Some of the younger members of the force thought it would be hilarious to change the name on the website. Only I can’t seem to change it back.”

“Well you’re more than welcome to ask, I’m sure Enjolras will be more than happy to lend a hand.” Valjean was starting to hear the telling sound of pots and pans, the (multiple) kettles put on to boil. “He could probably do it before breakfast if you’d like me to ask?”

“No, no, it’s fine I- I don’t currently have the password. If you wouldn’t mind me coming back sometime this week?”

Again, Valjean was sure Enjolras would be more than capable of finding his way into the site’s coding with his eyes closed, but Javert was still an officer of the law (albeit a wilderness one,) and he didn’t want any flags raised. “Sure, any time, he works from home, and I’m always free.”

 “I don’t have much in the way of a schedule.”

“You focus more on callouts?” Valjean asked, but then shrugged. “Like I say, always free, just give us a call about half an hour before you’ll arrive so someone in the house can radio me back home.”

Javert took out his pocketbook, and now they were in better lighting, Valjean could see the book too had the golden crest emblazoned on it. “What number should I use?” He asked, jotting down the numbers as Valjean dictated them.

The number of voices from the next room was growing, as was the sound of china being placed down, so Valjean lead them into the next room, seating Javert to his right, displacing Bahorel, who was more than happy to slum it down with Bossuet and Joly, pressed in close around the already-packed dining table.

“We’ll have to have you build another table, Papa,” Cosette whispered from Valjean’s left, and though Javert did not say much, or include him in any conversation, Cosette was right in noticing that Javert felt very much like part of the family.

At the end of the breakfast, the family went out in small groups to pay their respects to Jean Beaver (most of them had never caught a glimpse of him before,) and it was the whole house waving Javert down the drive with his three Tupperware boxes of leftovers.

“He was hot,” Grantaire concluded, the truck still in sight. Bahorel whacked Valjean on the shoulder as he passed, and there was the general aura of snicker as the kids disappeared back inside.

Not wanting to think about what they were all wrapped over about, Valjean hefted his axe and got to splitting logs for firewood.

-

Javert came back later that week, but true to his style, Enjolras worked fast, transforming the website to its original name (the rather plain ‘Beaver Removal’), adding a complete makeover of the website’s functions and design while he was at it, barely typing at his max speed, a mug of coffee in his other hand. Valjean liked Enjolras’ charitable spirit, but the man could be insufferably smug sometimes.

A few of the Amis not at work had been sat in the room, trying to send not-so-subtle signals at Enjolras (Valjean translated one as ‘slow down, keep him here forever,’) but the twenty minutes he’d managed to stretch himself too was too little to entice Javert into having a coffee.

Much to the annoyance of Cosette, Javert being a well-rounded member of society, had brought back the Tupperware he’d borrowed with him too, meaning Javert had not a single reason to return to the Madeleine lodge after he left.

“Why would we need him to come back?” Valjean asked, which seemed like the wrong question, as he was bombarded with shattered looks.

-

Valjean knew what the kids were trying to do, and he thought it was sweet, but ultimately unnecessary. Javert was… attractive, and knowledgeable, and about his age, but he didn’t want or need the assistance of the kids. Javert did not seem interested, end of story.

Valjean had started noticing Javert more often now, bumping into him at the grocery store or passing his truck on one of the paths in or out of town. They’d advanced from complete strangers to the nod of acknowledgement, but they never talked, Javert never showed any interest, and the kids (eventually) let it die when autumn died and winter started to set in.

With a reputation growing, orders for firewood had almost trebled, Valjean fully employing Feuilly, Bahorel and a couple of the others for the season to help him out. With all the work, none of them had time to go fishing, and so when they noticed the water level, it was almost too late.

It had been Jehan who’d noticed, on a walk to inspire their artistic muse. Jehan didn’t tend to go out alone, and so they’d been thankful they spotted Valjean and crew working nearby, grabbing Courfeyrac to ask him whether the river had always been suspiciously pond-like.

A half-hour later, the entire household was stood on the banks of the river, looking out at the new water-feature. It was a beaver dam, obviously, the two parallel walls of foliage blocking off a segment of now-still river, the down-river side lower than it was at the height of summer. The other end was… terrifying. Thankfully, the water was diverting away from the house, but the amount of force in the newly-formed track was devastating.

“So… do we… pull it apart?” Courfeyrac asked over the roar of the water.

“No, not yet, at least. We call Javert?” Valjean asked, and the rest of the family nodded, Combeferre passing over his phone. They walked a little distance back so that he could hear and dialled.

“Hello?”

“Hey, hi, it’s Jean Valjean, from Madeleine Cabin? You helped us with a beaver problem about half a year ago?”

“I remember.”

“Good, ah, well, we seem to have another resident.”

“Do you remember the places I looked last time?” Javert asked, and it sounded like he was slightly out of breath.

“Is this a bad time for you? I can call back later,” Valjean offered.

“No, it’s fine, I’m just… Trying to locate a horse on a mountain.” There was a mumbled obscenity, a loud whinny and then a couple of seconds of running, cut off by a sigh. “It’s fine. I can’t come today. Do you remember the places I looked when I was there last?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Get some of your children to help look for the signs. Start by your house, work your way to the river. I’ll come tomorrow.”

“Thank you-“ Valjean was cut off by another expletive and then the click of being hung-up on, so he passed back the phone to Combeferre. “Javert will come tomorrow, he said to look for any signs that we might be in danger from falling trees, especially up near the cabin.”

The family split themselves into groups, spreading wide to look for signs of damage. The big tree near the house hadn’t been further hacked into, but to be on the safe side, Valjean and Bahorel spend the rest of the evening chopping it down, no longer willing to let the insecure structure reside beside their house.

They spent dinner discussing their new neighbour (designated Jean Three,) but though they’d spent a lot of time around the river, they’d not spotted it. No-one knew whether it was feasible that the beaver might have gone into hibernation already, or whether it had just been out of the house for the day.

“Feuilly, Bahorel, I’ll leave you in charge of felling tomorrow. Courfeyrac, Bossuet, you help them. Éponine and Musichetta, I want you to be splitting logs. Joly, Marius, Cosette and Combeferre have shifts tomorrow, so it’ll be up to Jehan, E and R to help in any way you can. Run errands, make lunches, don’t burn the house down.”

The family nodded, accepting their jobs and made their way to bed relatively early in preparation for the long day ahead.

-

Valjean was waiting with thermoses when Javert arrived, wearing almost the same get-up he’d been wearing six months ago, though with the addition of a scarf and a pair of gloves.

They nodded, Valjean pushed one of the thermoses in Javert’s begrudging direction and they made their way to the river, large torches in hand.

Bahorel and Feuilly, taking a leaf out of Valjean’s book, had apparently risen early and snuck up on the two of them as the sun rose through the trees. “Any progress?” Feuilly asked, handing out slices of a rosemary loaf someone had baked last night.

“We’ll notch it for now, run a pipe through the gap and stimulate the beaver to repair the dam at the site of the notch but not at the pipe ends, allow the water to be set at a suitable level.” Javert’s pocketbook was out again, scribbling numbers and unreadable words.

“Won’t Jean Three block up the pipe?” Bahorel asked, demonstrating the concept by patting one curled fist with his other hand.

“We put in a filter. Corrugated plastic pipe. Prevents plugging. You could also use the Beaver Deceiver and a Round Fence with a pipe system at its front, or as a stand-alone device. Your choice.”

“I don’t think any of us know what that meant, so we’ll let you decide,” Valjean said, palms open before him in a shrug.

“So you won’t destroy it?” Feuilly asked, slightly hopefully, a tone Valjean had heard in most of the voices last night. None of the family found it quite fair to destroy the barricade that had risen just because it was on what was considered their ‘territory’ because of some human law.

“No. This is a family now, and not a new one, either. If you trap them, another family will just move in.”

Bahorel nudged Valjean with a huge, definitely not dawn-appropriate grin. “Prime beaver real estate!”

“The only problem is that you risk flooding,” Javert concluded, “or that you’ll have to keep vigilant about the trees around your property. There are quite a few that could become potentially fatal targets.”

“So the beavers are here to stay?”

Javert nodded, tucking away his notebook and allowing himself a sip of the steaming coffee that had been made for him.

“Well this isn’t quite the time I was planning on asking, but what do you guys say about building more houses on the land? A property for any of the Amis who want one for themselves, a school, a homeless shelter, and a place to actually store and cut wood.”

Feuilly and Bahorel looked at one another, communicated in their wordless way, shrugged, then nodded. Bahorel’s smile appeared and Valjean knew the project was already underway.

“I’ve missed something,” Javert said, sounding like he didn’t miss things very often.

“Jean is suggesting we build a new house further away from the flood-threat,” Feuilly explained. Then his mouth pulled to one side, he squinted, having had a thought, and retraced his mental steps. “Or we design beaver-proof properties.”

Valjean nodded, already thinking about the possibilities. They had enough timber, enough minds, enough money, all they’d need is time.

“You’re seriously suggesting completely demolishing your property for… the beaver family?” Javert looked taken aback, not sure which man to stare at with most confusion. The oldest man for suggesting such an outlandish idea, or the two younger for not only unquestioningly accepting it, or for already planning their new household.

“Welcome to the family,” Valjean joked, knowing from the amazement in Javert’s expression that he more than greatly approved of the fact that the humans were getting out of nature’s way for once.

“We could replant the saplings we displace towards the banks, hopefully get those roots stabilising the land.” Bahorel sketched a rough plan of the land around Madeleine Cabin, moving the house further from the dam and expanding both it and the forest.

“Dams can store water during periods of drought… and slow the movement of water from land to river systems…” Javert turned towards the river, his voice little more than an unconscious externalisation of his thoughts. “If you needed funding, we could convince the town you were preventing flooding nearer the town, and improving the water quality.”

“We wouldn’t need funding,” Valjean said quickly, but then softened his tone with a “but any positive publicity and help would be appreciated.”

Javert nodded, tapping his lip in thought. The four of them remained that way for a half-hour or so before they remembered they had a short-term solution to enact, Javert returning mid-afternoon with dam-notching equipment, winter-suitable waders for himself and Valjean and a whole host of tools.

It was cold. Snow was already mid-calf height at this time of the year, and though the fast-running water hadn’t completely frozen over yet, it wouldn’t be long until it went the same way as the ice-filled beaver pond.

Valjean had thought he was pretty good with dealing with the cold, but nothing had prepared him for the task at hand, doing heavy, manual labour in a fast, dangerous, freezing river in the company of an equally cold, frozen man, the two of them gradually growing irritable and finding it harder to work as their fingers locked, their legs numbed and their teeth chattered.

After three-quarters of an hour, they decided to call it a day and decided to head back to the cabin before the sun set, not wanting to know what the water felt like after-dark.

Javert didn’t pretend not to want to come inside that day, barely able to talk, let alone deny his ability to drive home in his condition. “Have a shower in my bathroom,” Valjean offered, going to have one in Cosette’s en suite so that Javert need not feel too out of place in the rather pink bathroom. “Use anything you want, there’re spare towels in the cupboard.” He apologised for not helping Javert himself, but Valjean could feel his bones creak, and any colder, he might actually develop a serious illness.

Valjean remembered spare clothes about ten minutes into his own shower.

-

Valjean knocked on his bedroom door but couldn’t hear anything, so decided he’d risk whatever he’d have to risk, already cooling rapidly in just the towel wrapped around his waist. He’d briefly entertained the thought of wearing Cosette’s bathrobe, but just the thought of attempting to put it on made him laugh enough to wheeze.

Once in his room, he could hear the sound of running water in the bathroom and, shooting a quickly glance at the door, decided he could change fast enough, and would have plenty of time to pull something on if he heard the  water turn off-

Valjean wondered, as he sat on his bed, fully dressed, why he’d acted quite so immaturely and had got dressed quite so fast. He’d nearly given himself a heart-attack in his attempts to pull on his trousers without falling over, and had needed to re-button his long-sleeved checked shirt about four or five times before he could get it to go right. He was sure Javert was used to changing in the enforcement officer’s changing rooms, even if Valjean had not been seen naked since he’d been born.

Calmer now, he laid out a spare set for his guest, in case Javert’s clothes were damp, or too cold. In case Javert didn’t understand, Valjean left a note ontop of the pile, saying Javert was free to wear the clothes, or to rifle through his drawers if something didn’t fit.

Valjean’s clothes would be too big on him, but better than letting Javert try on any of the kids’, whose collective fashion sense left something to be desired for rather simpler folk like Valjean.

He closed the door quietly behind him and went to make them some warm drinks, finding the leftovers of today’s food squad’s lunch in the fridge. It was a massive tureen of soup, a sure way of knowing Enjolras has drawn the lunchtime lot. Valjean found a medium saucepan and got to work warming some of it through, searching for some bread to toast.

He made enough noise to make sure Javert knew where to look for him. Sure enough Javert cleared his throat from the doorway just as the soup was beginning to boil, Valjean turning to find Javert in Valjean’s only slim-fit black shirt (slightly baggy,) and a pair of chinos one of the kids had bought him for his birthday in an attempt to add style to his wardrobe. It was a nice piece of clothing, tightened at the waist with an in-built drawsting, which meant it fit Javert well.

“Soup?” Valjean asked, pushing the bowl towards Javert across the table and enticing him into the room.

“Thank you. And for the clothes. Do you have a drier I could use?” Javert asked, holding out his pile of wet clothes.

“Of course, you want to wash them too?”

“I can wash them in town. Thank you for the offer.” He carefully placed his clothes in the industrial-sized drier they’d had installed a couple of months ago.

“In town?” Valjean asked, realising he’d noticed Javert’s truck outside the laundromat before. “Your place doesn’t have a washing machine?” He kept his tone carefully curious, not at all intending Javert to read haughtiness in his words.

“My ‘place’ is a rented room at the hotel.” The town didn’t get very many visitors, and Valjean had heard the place would lower its prices to local individuals who couldn’t afford an entire house and would lease a room for year-long contracts. Javert seated himself at the kitchen table, eyes dropping to the food. They ate in silence, the pair of them realising quite how hungry they were once they’d started to eat.

“I’ll come back tomorrow to finish notching the dam,” Javert said once they’d slowed down eating, ripping off a small piece of bread to dunk in his soup.

“Don’t bother coming at dawn,” Valjean said, following suit. “We shouldn’t risk going in in the dark, and the weather looks like it might snow. Safer to start around noon?”

Javert looked reluctant not to have an early start, but accepted the safety issues. “Fine.”

“If you come around ten, we can plan what we’ll do over breakfast. I think Bahorel’s planning on letting the rest of the family know our plans to move over dinner. You might like to be here when they’ve all got first-drafts of their plans.”

“First drafts?” Javert said, incredulous.

“I don’t think any of them will sleep tonight, they’ll be up all night planning. They get like this when they’ve got things to do. “I don’t think they got an hour’s sleep between them the week Feuilly and Bahorel announced their engagement.”

Javert nodded, having noticed the wedding photo on the wall beside the family photo. It had looked like a massive wedding, big dresses, fancy suits, every surface in view decorated with rivers of flowers. Everyone had looked happy, blissful, even.

“They’ll be happy to get a place of their own. They love living here, but er… there’s a communal bedroom between them and six others. Doesn’t afford much privacy. Not that they want anything deserving of privacy in their relationship but…” Valjean trailed off, realising he was revealing quite a lot of private information to this relative stranger.

“You’re really intending on building a village?”

“Well, maybe not a village but… I’d like to use my land as best I can, and I’m not… wanting on money. I would like to fund a school, and I’ve had my fair share of hardships in my youth. It would only be right to share the wealth.”

Something clicked in Javert’s mind and he frowned. “The kids don’t pay rent.”

Valjean smiled, shaking his head. “They pay for their lodge with their skills. They’ve all tried to sneak money back into my hands, but I’d prefer to help them prosper. They cook for me, they make me laugh, they keep Cosette happy. What more could I ask for?”

Javert humphed a little, obviously distrusting the use the kids could really provide. “What of your daughter’s inheritance?”

“Hah!” Valjean couldn’t stop the short burst of laugher, though he regretted the rather offended look now etched on Javert’s face. “If I thought Cosette would need money in the future I’d save every penny. But that girl would never forgive me if I squandered her future dowry from money I could have spent on the poor.”

“Like father like daughter.” Javert sat back, bowl empty and stomach full. He let out a small, satisfied sigh, and Valjean’s beam grew. The kids would be glad to hear his report, having fed Javert two bowls and half a loaf of bread; when Javert had joined them for breakfast all those months ago, half of the group were convinced Javert was unhealthily thin, and would need to fatten him up for Christmas.

Jehan had mentioned Javert when they’d been discussing their Thanksgiving plans, but by the time the day had come around, their invite to the eclectic wildlife officer had been neglected and forgotten.

“Did you enjoy the soup?” Valjean asked, taking the bowls and rinsing them out.

“Yes. Thanks to whichever of the chefs made it.”

“Today’s meal was provided by Enjolras,” Valjean told him, “The one who fixed your website? He used to run a homeless shelter in France somewhere, so he’s pretty good at over-sized portion control and filling, warming things.”

“Does everyone who interacts with you belong to some kind of charity or another?” There was a hint of deprecating humour in Javert’s voice, as if he couldn’t believe such a nice group of people existed.

“Far as I can tell, most of them met at some kind of charity conference in Europe. They bonded, then all decided to do some kind of communal-living thing, and Canada was the place they voted on. A couple of them have hinted about maybe moving on to different countries, and the place suits some more than others, but… most of the kids are fresh out of university.”

“Hmm.”

“Marius, the uh… white one,” Valjean smiled at Javert’s approving snort, “Is a surprisingly promising lad. He’ll probably end up as Prime Minister, despite his… stupidity.” Feeling a lot like an aunt showing off a successful family, Valjean leant back in his own chair, arms crossed. Marius had quickly become his least favourite child when Valjean had first noticed the pining, and had intercepted a love letter (written in pen on paper, for some reason,) but Cosette admonished her papa’s foolish hatred, consoling him that Marius’ intentions would never exclude Valjean from her life. “The others are far better people than he, and more experienced, better read, but Marius is…”

“White.”

“Well yes,” Valjean laughed, “And his family is rich. Monsieur Gillenormand is his grandfather? But he’s also more palatable. Marius cares about injustice, is all I can say about him.”

“Combeferre is not following a political career?” Javert asked, and Valjean wondered at the familiarity in Javert’s voice. Noticing, Javert’s head tilted. “His mother was part of my mother’s family. You did not know?” he asked, looking confused. “You called from his number, the first time.”

“He told us he had found your number on your website…” Valjean frowned. Combeferre had done no such thing, they had all just assumed the quiet man had googled for a local beaver-trapper and dialled the number on the site. “Oh.” He would have to reconsider Combeferre’s cunning. “So you are an uncle, then. Welcome to our family.”

“Hardly. I do not care for my mother’s family. I know of Combeferre’s prowess, he is a much talked-about man in the grapevine, but I do not…” Javert licked his lips, avoiding Valjean’s eye. “I would prefer not to identify as part of their culture.”

Valjean wasn’t sure how to react to this piece of quite hard-hitting information. He was not well-versed enough in Métis, or First Nations history to be able to gauge how much of Javert’s rejection of his identity was his own personal negative family history, or because of internal… prejudice. He blinked, then nodded. As far as Valjean knew, a good fifty percent of the Canadian population had Aboriginal blood in them nowadays, so it could well just be Javert’s family.

“Animals are far easier to deal with than family,” Valjean said, quietly, hoping Javert would not think the obvious swerve from conversation tasteless.

Valjean was thanked with a genuine smile from Javert, accompanied by a chuckle. “I agree.”

Glad they were back to more comfortable territory, Valjean offered Javert another coffee, before Javert insisted he had to leave before it became too icy to drive home.

Valjean still smarted as he lay in bed that night, guilty at having blown off the hard topic, but as he debated with himself, he decided it was not for him to decide what Javert thought of himself. Race often became a relevant conversation topic at dinner, and it often boiled down to white prejudice. Javert might not be in touch with his culture, but he was hardly someone who’d be so because of white influence. He would lay it to rest until when, or if, Javert was comfortable with discussing it.

-

Javert arrived just in time for breakfast, a seat provided for him, the table more cramped than usual as they tried to fit half a dozen sketch pads and easels around food, chairs, in basically any space available in the room.

The sun was moving towards descent by the time they’d managed to escape the room, Javert at first a quiet observer to the planning, slowly drawn in with questions about dislocating animals from their environment, and the best way to replant the trees they’d have to cut for timber.

Full on good food and still warm from the packed, actively gesticulating room, getting into the river was a harder task than yesterday, not at all helped by the slowly quickening snowfall blowing in from the mountains.

Today Bahorel and Bossuet had accompanied them to the water’s edge, holding coats and blankets they could change into as soon as they got out, and a couple of radios in case anything went wrong.

The work was harder today, the dam not only held together by the beavers’ ingenuity, but by frozen packs of ice and snow, meaning an added step of chiselling and digging through snow. The water had risen again too, up to mid-thigh, now, and the torrent of water would make them to stumble, causing waves of water that could reach their midriffs or higher.

Their steps, which had started slow and cautious, soon became rushed, wanting to get out of the river as soon as possible. That was why, two hours into their mission and reaching the final stretch, Javert resorted to using brute strength to pull at the corrugated pipe now lodged in the dam instead of carefully slotting it through, and, losing his grip, slipped and fell back into the river.

Valjean watched it happen, Javert disappearing under the water, almost like he’d been watching in slow motion, unable to think for seconds before his body started to move by itself, searching for any sign of air. The river was fast, fast enough to take Javert metres down the river if he had been knocked unconscious in the fall. Valjean prayed to God in broken mental exclamations that Javert’s head had avoided smashing against one of the large boulders on the river bed.

The surface of the river was a rush of white, anything lurking below hidden from view; Valjean looked to the bank where Bossuet and Bahorel had their hands cupped around their mouths, shouting something Valjean couldn’t hear over the swell of water. Seeing he’d seen them, they started to point further downstream where Valjean spotted bright red, for a second mental alarms reading blood, but realising it was the red of Javert’s life-jacket, he dove towards the colour, grabbing at anything he could catch before Javert could be carried away again.

He couldn’t feel his fingers, couldn’t tell how hard he was clutching, but he pulled up, and Javert came with his arms, out of the water. Valjean hefted Javert up and out of the water, making sure to keep his neck steady in case he’d injured it in the fall, making the necessarily slow journey back to shore, where Bahorel was laying out the coats and blankets and Bossuet was speaking into the radio, both looking like they would jump into the river at the first sign of trouble.

A step into the walk, he realised that Javert had not gasped for air, and didn’t seem to be breathing, so he started to breathe for Javert as he walked, breathing into his mouth, stepping, letting Javert’s chest fall and starting the process again. Their work earlier had felt like hours. Valjean’s walk to the shore felt like years.

He all but collapsed on top of Javert as he laid him on the ground, hand going to Javert’s neck to check for a pulse but, fingers numb, he couldn’t tell if the blood he felt was just a side-effect of the sound in his ears, the rapid drumming of an over-excited heart. He put his ear to Javert’s chest and started CPR, Joly taking over when he arrived, the others holding Valjean back and attempting to wrap him in insulating material, getting him to calm down.

Valjean only let himself be maneuvered back towards the cabin when he saw Javert’s chest heave, letting Joly take over bossing them all around.

-

Javert woke with a cough. From the pain that flared in his mind, his throat feeling raw and his mouth tasting acidic, it wasn’t the first time he’d coughed recently. He felt woozy, his chest hurt like something was compressing it, and he couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath.

It didn’t help that someone was yelling “he’s awake!” in his ear. He felt like death warmed up. Too warmed up. Wherever he was, it was extremely hot, and he felt like he was sweating out of his skin. He attempted to open his eyes, but he didn’t recognise the ceiling above him, nor was the face hovering in his blurred vision instantly recognisable. He couldn’t place the smell either, though it was more familiar, and far more comforting.

He tried to get up, but strong hands kept him lying down, someone cupping his neck as they placed him back on the pillow as if to prevent him from moving his spine.

“Valjean?” he asked, placing the scent as the one he’d smelled on Valjean’s lent clothes, on their proximity during dinner.

“I’m here, Javert, you need to rest. Listen to Doctor Joly, okay?”

Javert coughed again, the pain in his throat agonising. He let out an agitated but generally affirmative growl and allowed himself to be manhandled back to sleep.

When he next awoke it was dark, and no-one seemed to be above him. He heard the soft breathing of a near-sleeper, obviously his night-time vigil, and he craned his neck to see. He was glad to find out that he’d not done irreparable damage to his neck, not feeling the faintest flicker of pain in his neck as he turned.

Eyes still adjusting to the light, he felt, rather than saw Valjean, lying next to him in the bed. It was a bed, that much was sure, and Valjean’s, if Javert remembered the pattern right. He was glad he’d not hit his head too hard so that he could work out why he was sleeping side-to-side with the man-of-his-dreams-attractive-lumberjack-come-charity-worker-who-cared-for-the-environment-and-was-very-likely-queer Valjean in his quite-small-for-two-grown-men double bed.

So he’d fallen into the river, nearly died, and Valjean had put him up in his bed. Valjean must have been at risk of pneumonia too, and it was no doubt hard enough to drag one larger-than-average sized, possibly grievously injured man into a first-floor bed, without having to deal with whether it may or may not be awkward.

Or Valjean had opted to have Javert in his bed. For Javert’s sanity, he preferred to convince himself of the former.

He tried to stop himself from coughing so as to not wake Valjean (who had, no doubt, lost sleep over Javert’s health,) but doing so only made it harder to breathe, and his coughs doubled in vigour. From somewhere in the house he heard a door opening and swift, light footsteps coming closer, but the door had yet to open when he felt Valjean sit up and inspect him.

Javert feigned sleep, then and a couple more times in the night, finding it much easier to deal with Valjean when he was not a breath’s distance away.

-

It was a couple of days later that Javert discovered the reason he’d not been rushed to hospital: since his accident, Madeleine house had been snowed in. They had been lucky Joly hadn’t been on shift when they’d dragged the two men back to the house or, he’d been told, it  would have been very likely they’d have died of pneumonia, or of secondary drowning.

It was a full week before Javert was allowed to leave Valjean’s bed, and then only because they both complained to Joly about the frankly disturbing amount of germs there must be in the bed after their week’s imprisonment in it.

He wasn’t fully convinced that they were telling the truth about the snow, either, wondering whether the kids were using it as a reason why Javert had to stay in Valjean’s room; (“the attic is too cold for the top-floor crew, they’re all using the living-room as a temporary bedroom, sorry there’s no spare beds,”) and Javert was almost entirely sure the situation was Combeferre’s fault.

He certainly got to know Valjean in their enforced living quarters. He learnt that Valjean was not as innocent as he led the kids believe, that he was, quite frankly, a little shit. He also learnt a lot about Valjean’s past too, about his sister, and about the nieces and nephews he’d had whose names and faces he could no-longer recall.

Javert had told a little about his parents, about his past, and no doubt Valjean had learnt much about Javert’s tics and habits from their near 24/7 contact.

Javert developed a persistent cough that meant even long after the snow had become manageable enough to shovel, he was made to stay. By then, the third week of the stay, it didn’t seem necessary to offer him one of the spare rooms.

Combeferre liked to join them, sometimes, and Valjean was glad Javert knew enough about the boy to know when to tease and when to hold back, as well as quite a few family quirks they could laugh over.

Like kids trying to impress their parents, every so often one or two of the Amis would drop in with sketchbooks and models of their plans for the property, a slowly evolving cluster of eco-friendly (obviously,) sturdily built houses and multi-purpose buildings, featuring multi-faith prayer rooms and more showers than you could count on two hands.

Javert woke up one morning and didn’t cough. He felt his chest compress, a knot form in his throat, and a vaguely overwhelming feeling of despair. His one reason for staying had been cured. He was free to go.

He’d not had any of his things brought to the house, having lived in clothes donated to him from various members of the household, so it was relatively easy to pack before Valjean had woken up.

“Javert?” he heard a quiet voice ask as he sat on the edge of the bed, getting ready to tie his hair up, his last action before he could leave.

“Go back to sleep, Jean.”

“You’re up too early. Nothing to do at this time of the morning.” Javert glanced at the time, “05:21” glaring back at him.

“I should go.”

“Go where?” Valjean asked, rolling onto his side so he could watch Javert, eyes still closed and voice dream-like and distant.

“Home.”

Javert watched Valjean’s momentary look of confusion, before his eyes burst open. “This is your home, Javert.”

Javert shook his head, not able to smile. “Thank you for your hospitality… Pass on my thanks to Joly… and Combeferre… and… to all of your family…”

“Javert, you’re staying. You’re part of the family now.”

Javert closed his mouth, no doubt having had many more arguments prepared, but one look at Valjean’s face had silenced him.

“I’m no longer ill. I will get out of your way.”

Valjean sat up, confusion spreading. “Out of our way? Javert- am I- Are you OK?”

“Fine.” Javert nodded. He would be fine. He was fine, was that not the problem?

They looked at each other for too long, became conscious of the fact, both blushed, and the look dropped. Both gulped.

They both heard the same question in the same look.

“Javert… come back to bed.”

Javert stood, looked at the ceiling as if asking the heavens, and then sat back down, allowing Valjean to touch his shoulder, softly, and lie him back down. Whether to prevent Javert from leaving, or because of something more, Valjean’s arm rested upon Javert’s chest.

Javert breathed, trying to calm his heart, and to stop himself from utterly embarrassing himself by doing something as foolish as crying.

“Leaving,” Valjean mumbled into his pillow, scoffing at the word. “Leaving us. Hah. You’re part of my family now,” Valjean whispered, yawning intermitted. “I don’t let anyone leave.”

-

“Do you trap humans too?” Valjean asked, and Javert frowned. Valjean’s eyes squinted. “Do you have a metal cage big enough for a human male, about five foot nine? Quite skinny, easily crushable?”

“I think I might. In storage maybe.” Javert used his thumb and forefinger to turn Valjean’s head towards him by his chin, so that he could no longer look over Javert’s shoulder at the man a couple of metres away from them. He straightened Valjean’s tie, then fiddled with the flower tucked into his lapel.

“Too far away. We might have to resort to doing it barehanded.”

“Doing what?” Javert asked, playing along with Valjean’s attempts at being the overly-jealous father.

“Killing him. Assassination. I could live with myself.”

Javert snorted, unable to even imagine Valjean with a ball and chain, gone down for murdering a poor lawyer boy.

“Why couldn’t she have just married Éponine?” Valjean whined, fidgeting even as Javert stroked his arm to try to calm him.

“You know very well that Éponine doesn’t believe in marriages,” Javert calmed, having had to have this same conversation many a time since the engagement was announced. Though Cosette and Marius were to be, in the eyes of the law, married as a monogamous couple, the marriage they were celebrating was between the three of them, Éponine more than happy to live outside of what she called ‘government control’, and highly approving of the lawful marriage between Cosette and Marius.

“But he’s so…” Valjean’s eyes narrowed again, spotting Marius waiting at the end of the church, looking just as terrified as Valjean.

“I seem to remember someone having high hopes in Monsieur Pontmercy, MP.”

Valjean’s acidic gaze transferred to Javert instead, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial “we tell no-one about that.”

“You’ll have to buy my silence, of course,” Javert said with a smile, glad that he was taller than Valjean for not the first time, so he could look down at him with a teasing glee.

Valjean’s eyes un-narrowed, his pout widening into a much less tense smile. “Of course.”

“Do you accept foreign currency?” Valjean asked, leaning slightly closer.

Javert nodded, closing the gap between them.

There was a booming whoop from their right, and they smiled out of the kiss, coming back to earth to find themselves at the centre of their wolf-whistling, cheering family.

Combeferre cleared his throat, laying a hand on Valjean’s arm. “Cosette is waiting,” he said quietly, and then his voice rose so that the room could hear. “She says if you’ve ruined her wedding by kissing Monsieur Javert without her in the room, you’ll not live to regret it.”

There was another round of cheers, laughter following Valjean out of the room as he went to collect his daughter from her dressing-room.

He met Éponine at the doorway, already ready to take his other arm, shit-eating grin on her face. “You’ll have to buy my silence, of course,” she mimicked, laughing as Valjean’s cheeks adopted a beautiful beetroot red.

When Cosette joined them, Valjean felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. She was stunning. Everything was overwhelming. He kissed her forehead, and then Éponine’s, before the three linked arms.

“Ready?” Valjean asked, preparing himself in front of the double doors.

He felt Cosette tighten her arm a little and, expecting her to be nervous, he turned towards her.

Her expression was far less nervous, far more livid. “It’ll be yours next, of course, Papa.”

“Mine?” Valjean asked, slightly terrified she was talking about his funeral, having heard his plans to assassinate their dear Marius.

“Wedding. They’re all the rage these days. We’re planning on making Javert catch the bouquet.”

“That old beaver trapper from down town?” Valjean asked as the doors opened and he caught sight of the man in question, an impossibly large smile on his face already. “Who’d ever marry him?”

**Author's Note:**

> For more Javert's identity, I only used [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%A9tis_people_(Canada)] and [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Nations], with the help of OnWednesdaysWeStudyInPink, and so I would appreciate anyone who can tell me if I'm being a total ass about anything. 
> 
> I watched one episode of Beavers Behaving Badly (http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04c9rt1 if you’re in the UK/ have access to Iplayer) and so obviously I’m really knowledgeable about beavers. It was what inspired me to write this abomination. If any information about beaver trapping is wrong, I'd greatly appreciate feedback (I've no intention of ever causing harm to beavers? I'm so sorry.) I used information about beavers found at [https://www.ec.gc.ca/default.asp?lang=En&n=BD3CE17D-1] and [  
> http://www.humanesociety.org/animals/beavers/tips/solving_problems_beaver.html]


End file.
